Exiles
by dirge
Summary: BtVS crossover. It's amateur surgery night at Ye Olde Revello Inn.
1. Initiative

**Exiles**   
A Hellsing/BtVS crossover  
by d.irge 

Rating: PG-13 for adult themes and violence. Will most likely go up in later chapters. What's an adult theme anyway? Is that like bom-chaka-bow-wow?

Description: Hellsing's investigation into source of the FREAK chip leads to the Initiative, Sunnydale, and the chip's origins – a vampire only known as Hostile 17. Betrayal comes in many forms, as everyone is about to discover.

Takes place after _Order 13_ of the _Hellsing_ anime and season seven of Buffy, post- _Showtime_.

Disclaimer: The characters in Hellsing belong to um, er, well they don't belong to me, and neither do the ones from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. But you knew that already.

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** [1] Initiative**

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She supposed she should have been flattered; after all, the Beaumont Tower implied she was important enough to be imprisoned in a cellar usually reserved for the most dangerous enemies of the state.

It didn't matter that they'd discovered the traitor to the Round Table. It didn't matter that without Hellsing - Alucard and her agents, London would have been the MasterFREAK Theatre hotspot of Europe.

They'd wanted something to blame for the Buckingham Palace massacre, and the Institute was convenient; they'd needed someone to sacrifice, and its leader, Sir Integral Wingates Hellsing was presented to Her Majesty on a silver platter.

Typical.

Integra leaned back against the wall of the cell, the narrow cot her seat, as she fiddled with her last cigar. When she'd first been arrested, they'd cuffed her in soft wrist restraints out of consideration for her massive neck and abdominal injuries. No one had bothered to switch to shackles when it became apparent she had no intention of trying to escape.

The ever-unkillable Walter Dorne, who had not been acting executor of the estate since she'd reached her majority five years ago, slipped with only a minimum of fuss back into command once he'd been released from the hospital. Aided, of course, by a bit of cheating on her part.

That bit of cheating usually showed up thirty minutes after evening supper had been served. Like clockwork, Alucard would materialize with her laptop, cell phone and Henri Wintermans in hand.

Had Integra been less busy ruling by-proxy, she might have found some amusement at the thought of Hellsing Institute's greatest weapon having been reduced to a mere errand boy.

Unfortunately, it also turned out to be the perfect excuse for Alucard to pester her on a regular basis as well. Perhaps it was because he, himself, had been bound and starved in her cellar for twenty years, that he would find her incarceration to be particularly irritating, a personal affront, almost.

_"Her Majesty and your country have abandoned you. You have no reason to stay here."_

_"Be that as it may, I still have my duty. I serve Her Majesty, my country and God. You would do best to remember who_ **_you_**_ serve."_

_His __mouth had formed__ into something of a sneer. "How could I possibly forget...Master? Though I doubt your God even cares __that you're__ rotting away in this__tomb."_

_Oh, that one had been too easy. "Well. __This m__ust feel just like home to you then."_

_"Perhaps. But it's not for the living. Not for you." He'd tilted his head, the right corner of his lip curling up to reveal a hint of fang. "Unless you plan to take me up on my offer."_

And it always came around to that. Every night, the same thing - a mocking smile and the offer of blood.

Predictable as always. It was almost charming in its simplicity. Almost.

Tonight, however...

Integra glanced at her watch for the fifth time in twenty minutes before lightingher cigar.

He was late.

With an impatient mind unused to something as simple as idleness, she pushed the bridge of her wire-rimmed glasses back up her nose and re-read the assorted carvings on the wall behind her, all elegant verse and graffiti dating back through the centuries. Her hands itched for activity, _something_ to do, and she was on the verge of picking up the steak knife from her dinner tray to carve out her own niche in the wall of traitors.

A bump, followed by a curse sounded behind her, and Integra shifted over on the cot, warily eyeing the source of the noise. Seconds later, the disheveled head and shoulders of Seras Victoria emerged from the wall, windmilling her arms as if she were doing a slow-motion breaststroke through quicksand. At her waist, the vampire-in-training paused for a breather, drooping bonelessly in place.

"Sorry," she puffed with unnecessary breath. "Master's been trying to teach me how to do this, but I still haven't quite gotten the hang of it yet." She unhooked the yellow backpack from her shoulders and handed it to her boss.

As she took the bag, Integra allowed herself a fleeting moment to wonder how this absurd picture might appear from another perspective; if there was someone on the other side trying to figure out why there was an arse sticking out of the wall.

Unphasing her hands, Seras latched onto the edge of the cot and heaved forward, drawing the rest of her nebulous self through the stone. Finally freed, she flopped crosswise onto bunk, exhausted. A moment later, as if suddenly remembering where she was, she shot up off the cot and stood at attention before Sir Hellsing.

"S-sir! I was instructed to deliver your items by Master Alucard."

Integra hmm'ed as she pulled her laptop out of the backpack. "And what sort of trouble is he out causing tonight?"

"Umm..."

Other motions ceased as pale blue eyes narrowed. "Well?"

The vampire scratched her neck, a nervous stutter causing her voice to waver. "Uh...he mentioned something about...finding religion?"

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"Well, s'a bit o' predicament you've gotten y'rself 'ta dinnae 'gree?" Father Alexander Anderson grinned as he drove the point of a blessed blade into the vampire's neck.

A matching grin revealed a row of bloody, needle-like teeth. "Predicament?" Alucard rasped, air hissing through the open slit in his throat as fingers of an impossibly extended hand clutched the Iscariot's mandible and tore it off, hurling the mangled jaw into next Tuesday. "I'd say the fun's only beginning."

_Where are you?_

The vampire tilted his head at the whisper. Well. This was certainly unexpected. Still, Alucard found himself inordinately pleased with this impromptu visit from her. Or perhaps, being ever the exhibitionist, he simply enjoyed having a virtual audience for this particular scene.

_Integra... he practically purred. What a nice surprise._

An image of Alucard flashed in Integra's mind, complete with the assorted stab-wounds he presently sported. A particular nasty gash had opened his neck from front to back, revealing a collection of severed arteries and a portion of what appeared to be trachea, spilling gore down the collar and front of his otherwise impeccable white linen shirt.

Alucard felt her mind twitch in response, taking a mental half-step back. Perhaps she hadn't expected her feeble attempt at contact to actually work. But there were so many things she didn't know. So many things he could teach her, if she'd only...

Two knives slid home into his shoulders. Ohh...right.

_Playing again? _Sir Integra never remained nonplused for long. _You appear to be somewhat perforated._

_On the contrary, _Alucard, in an impressive feat of multitasking, snapped his left hand out of his coat, drawing out the ridiculously long-barreled Casull, all the while dodging the next set of knives that seemed to come from everywhere, and shot back the mindblip. _I'm doing quite well. _

Oh, he could envision her now, her perfectly pressed olive suit and tie, left leg cocked up on the narrow bunk, wearing the smirk she'd learned from him years ago.

And those soft-restraint handcuffs. But that was a different idle thought.

He pulled twice on the trigger of the .454 just as four more blessed blades were plunged into his torso. Both supernatural...creatures...for lack of a better word...stumbled back from the twin impact, bodies spraying blood into the air. The Catholic priest recovered first, bullets vomiting forth from his chest, as his wounds shrunk from the pair of fist-sized holes into mere puckers. For some reason, he hadn't bothered to regenerate his jaw.

_Without a jaw, the tongue just sort of hangs there, doesn't it?_

Two more daggers appeared in Anderson's hands, and with a war scream unhindered by the lower missing half of his face, he ran towards the _fookin' blight'n God's great earth_.

_And yet it still doesn't prevent the fool from yapping incessantly on._

Arching back under the blades  in an elegant sidestep, Alucard twisted at a nearly impossible angle, proving he was impressively double-jointed, as his right brandished the even bigger Jackal from his duster.

_He is rather like a small, annoying dog._

The vampire's arms bent back, around and down, both guns pointing towards each other, before simultaneously unloading at Anderson's legs. The paladin crashed to the ground, and slid forward, leaving twin streaks of red on the concrete, as both knees disappeared under thirteen millimeters of point-blank fury.

Alucard's grin widened as he watched the Iscariot agent scrabble around the ground on his hands and the stumped remains of his legs, cursing and snapping.

_Now that you mention it, yes. Yes he is._

_Nice shot. _A tinge of grudging admiration._ Still, are you sure you ought to be doing your fighting at the Council of Watchers Headquarters?_

_Won't be here much longer. Now, let's see if I can't get both arms with one--_

Integra's head jerked back, cracking against the stone wall as the mental equivalent of a concussion grenade went off in her head, and it all blacked out from there.

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Swimming out of unconsciousness after minutes...hours...who knew...she opened her eyes to Seras gently patting her face with soft, mildly hysterical pleas of "Sir Integra!"

Waving the former police woman aside, Integra pushed herself up to a sitting position and found herself instantly rewarded with a round of nausea that sent the room spinning, with the back of her head as its axis. A warm trickle ran down her nose and over her mouth. She swiped the back of a gloved fist across it in irritation.

Glancing up, Integra saw Seras unconsciously lick her lips and swallow hard before looking away. Looking back down, she noticed the back of her glove stained with blood. With a grimace, Integra drew the offending item off and tossed it to the floor near where her now guttered cigar had rolled. That action caused her focus to swim for several more seconds before she regained back the grip on her brain.

_Alucard!_

Nothing. She waited. Unconsciously, her ungloved hand moved to her mouth. Teeth closed over her thumbnail.

As she prepared to call out again, a weak, but distinct, _I'm here_, filtered through. Integra saw a mass of eyeballs and primordial sludge slowly pulling itself back together amidst the smoking wreckage.

_What happened?_

_Apparently, the building exploded._ One pale eyebrow shot up. _I had nothing to do with it_, came the protest.

She grunted dismissively. _It was an eyesore anyway. You do realize, though, that blowing up Anderson puts a damper on negotiations with the Vatican?_

An amused pause. _I thought you'd broken that habit._ Integra jerked her thumbnail out of her mouth. _I wouldn't worry. It might take the Iscariot a few days to locate all of his bits, but it looks like he might have actually survived._

_I see._ _Pity._

_I could finish the job, if you like._

Tempting.

_No, just check for any survivors and head back here when you've pulled yourself together._

"I'm glad you're all right."

The puzzled look Seras' face told her she'd just spoken out loud.

Another pause. Sir Hellsing could have sworn the shadowy mass had actually just grinned.

_As always, my master._


	2. Shiv

  
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** [2] Shiv**   
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If a tree falls in the forest, and only a vampire hears it, does it make a sound?

If a stake explodes, sending wood flying like shrapnel into the air...

If one sliver, the length of a toothpick, with half its diameter, this tiny little thing traveling at thirty miles an hour, slipped through the sternum, a shiv nesting effortlessly into a vampire's heart...

Would it be just enough dust?

Apparently not, as the bloodsucker in question stumbled a handful of steps back, clutching painfully at his chest, but managed to otherwise stay irritatingly whole. A quarter inch higher or lower, it might have angled harmlessly off his ribs. A millimeter thicker, dust in the wind.

At that point, Xander Harris figured that William the Bloody has got to be the luckiest vampire in the world.

A _crack_ snapped the Scooby of out his ruminations, back to the fight at hand. Or rather, what was left of it:

- The demon, something resembling a twelve-foot Easter Island statue, stubby stone legs and all.

- The Slayer perched on its back, her left leg wrapped about its neck, right calf looped about its arm as leverage.

- The Slayer's right hand, owner of the former stake-cum-toothpick extravaganza,  palm pressed flat against Stonejob's temple, cranking the head below it to an ugly sub-ninety degree angle.

...Which all resulted in a rather predictable turn of events, namely, the stone monument toppling as Buffy untangled herself from its shoulders, pushed up into a handstand and elegantly dismounted to a ten-point landing.

Seconds later, an "Owww," whistled out as Buffy, dropping all pretense, shook out her reddened palm and began digging at the splinters under her skin. "Could have used a little help here at the end, Spike."

"Sorry."

Xander waited, expecting the punchline, the insult, a lewd remark. Hell, he'd come up with three on the spot.

But _sorry_ was all she got. All they ever got now. The First Evil, who'd bled Spike dry over the Giant Manhole of Evil hadn't left much behind, save the little paper shell that soaked up the entire household's supply of hydrogen peroxide twice a month. This shell of Spike, who Buffy had dutifully brought home and placed in the basement hadn't thanked her so much as completely retreated from all semblance of living. Unliving. Whatever it was, it meant no more playing pool or watching TV or participating in any such semi-human activities the pre-soul Spike'd so fond of. Hell, he'd been more animatedinsane, post Out-of-Africa.

Apparently, with Spike's tenure as personal stabby-toy to the Turok-Han, came the startling clarity that he wasn't fit to pretend to be human. No, not this monster, the _thing_ that was little more than an animated corpse. It seemed he'd finally accepted it. Trash, that's what he was. Nothing. The ever so miniscule particle, non-recyclable, walking landfill.

"I'm...I think I'm all right." Deadboy Junior lurched unsteadily forward, hand super-glued to his chest, like he was permanently stuck in a pledge of allegiance.

"Didn't ask," Dawn snipped, cutting a path around him to bisect the otherwise uninterrupted view between him and her sister. As if it were her personal responsibility to act as her personal meat shield.

Buffy seemed displeased. Or simply tired, hungry and wanting to get patrolling over with. Plus the splinters in her hand looked like they were beginning to itch. Her mouth thinned into a line, and a muscle at her temple might have twitched. But she didn't say anything.

Besides, Dawn wasn't the only one who did that. Willow was more unconscious about it, Xander, less circumspect. Sunnydale's linebacker defense, all in the name of guarding Slayerdom from the world's most apathetic vampire.

Not that any of their efforts really mattered, though. Spike rarely even spoke to Buffy anymore. He could barely bring himself to look at her half the time. Left to his own (questionable) devices and (again, questionable) sanity, he seemed perfectly content to sit in the dark, haunting the basement of her house, much like he did at Sunnydale high.

At least that's what it seemed every time Xander went downstairs to fetch him. And it was always Xander that got the honors because somehow, in this little fucked-up group of friends, _he_ of all people hadn't been betrayed by William the Bloody.

In return, no one pointed out to Spike that he'd become a lot more like Angel than he'd ever admit, because he hated that idea more than he hated his soul. And no one really delved into the whys or hows of the vampire obtaining _that_ particular piece of baggage. Buffy hadn't exactly been forthcoming with the details, either. But then again, it wasn't difficult to figure out. Hello, stupid here. Obsessive. Impulsive. Not big with the thinking. Duh.

And yet, in those buried, unrecognized parts of him, Xander understood what it was all about. He got the kind of fervor Buffy engendered, the worst she brought out in those who would destroy the world, who would destroy themselves. All for her.

Like Angel. Whose fixation betrayed a fascination with the girl. Even evil with the big 'E', he'd loved her in his own sick and warped way, endlessly and grotesquely fascinated with her.

Or Riley Finn. Nice guy. Who'd tried to touch the darkest part of himself to connect with the Slayer. And still it hadn't been enough.

And, of course, Spike. Soulless, evil (and proud of it) Spike. Spike, who never stood a chance, because after all was said and done, beneath the bite and bluster and hundred years of carnage, he was still a man.

It had taken so much time, paid in blood and Buffybots, but in the end, Spike finally understood. Realized the incontrovertable truth.

_Yes, you sick fuck, you evil, perverted bastard. She's too good for you. She's always been too good for you._

Xander figured himself lucky. Pow! Shot down cold at the onset. Lovers, boyfriends, fuck buddies had all come and gone, but in the end he was still there; always there. The friend. Best friend. The gang of three. Better that than some cast-off shell of all the boyfriend corpses left in her path.

Still.

Given a chance.

He wouldn't have passed it up.

After all, he was still a guy.

But the vampire with remorse? With the soul? He'd seen this show once already. _Really_ didn't like it the first time around, no interest whatsoever in experiencing the rerun.Xander craned his head back over his shoulder, ducking to the left, and then to the right. Especially one lagging so far behind, he'd almost become an afterthought.

Exasperated, he hollered, "Remind me again, why we bother to let you tag along?"

It took a moment for Spike to catch up, which, in the interim, gave him ample time to come up with a suitable rejoinder.

"Well, I'm sure if screaming like a little girl could dust the vamps, you'd have the whole Hellmouth sewn up fine an' pretty, Placebo Boy." A flash of the old sneer sparked as he leaned forward on the balls of his feet, head cocked and hands curled into fists.

With a slap to the chest, the Xan-man sent Spike stumbling back. There it was. What he was looking for.

_A reason to dust you. Any reason. Doesn't even have to be a good one._

The vampire snarled, eyes flashing game-yellow.

"Don't make me separate you boys." Buffy, entourage in tow, took a swift U-turn towards the burgeoning tet-a-tet.

But 'tet'...or maybe its twin, the other 'tet'...was gone as soon as it appeared. Energy sapped, like it had all drained out of his feet, Spike slipped back to zero, sinking to the ground, his hand pressed back to his chest. Without the spark, he looked pitifully small.

Kneeling, Buffy touched the back of the vampire's wrist. He watched, seemingly surprised that her fingers didn't carve into him like sunlight. Gently, she pulled it away, and saw it – blood on his palm; on his chest, a blotch the size of a dime, black staining blue.

Huh. Today he'd been wearing a blue shirt. Xander hadn't even noticed. Didn't care, really. It was only because that dime-sized blotch was growing larger and larger, that he'd even clued in.

Glancing down at his own hand, he saw the smear of red there as well.

_Yeah. Luckiest vampire in the world._


	3. Power and Principles

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**[3] Power and Principles**  
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Soundtrack: Going, Going, Gone - Stars  
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He remembered those child's eyes, bright and almost unholy, watching him move through Richard Hellsing's men like they were insubstantial, scattering viscera and body parts about the dungeon as he gorged himself from their skullcaps. Oh, there was shock, horror and not a little revulsion boiling on the surface, but deep inside, he'd glimpsed that twinge of curiosity, the strange hidden fascination with the monster bound to her by blood. 

Her blood. 

His first taste in twenty years, and it had thrummed in his mouth like rocket fuel. Exquisite, Hellsing high-octane. Oh, he remembered a great many details of that night, every crack in the floor, every scream, the warm, pungent smell of terror emanating from their soft, weak bodies. But mostly, the heady, dizzying taste of _her_.

He could still hear her blood flowing, the steady trickle running down her sleeve from where the bullet lay buried in her arm. Yet the thirteen year-old girl who had probably never picked up a gun in her life had held that Walther PPK steady in her hands, muzzle trained on that pathetic, whimpering uncle of hers.

She'd asked his name. 

_Alucard_, she'd mouthed experimentally. Processed. Compartmentalized. Took her grief and rage and tucked it all away. 

_Alucard_, she'd repeated, in acceptance of duty, her inheritance, Master of this Monster. He'd listened to her heart as it decelerated, the last stages of adrenaline dissolving from her veins. 

Then, she'd pulled the trigger. Without warning or fanfare. 

Uncle and father, both buried that week.

And how he'd laughed then. Yes, yes! She was undeniably of old Abraham's lineage, but unlike her insufferably weak father and the traitorous Richard, she'd had all fear burned out of her that one night. As objectionable as indentured servitude was to this sober little girl, this _child_, he'd vowed to serve her. 

A mere decade later, at twenty three, she'd achieved beyond his expectations, grown into something... he couldn't quite place a gloved finger on, but it had wormed its way into the back of his head and had made a comfortable home there. 

Yet, there she was, locked up like some caged animal, with her family's institute crumbling around her, and she still repeatedly turned his offer down. Silly, infuriating…woman. But he could wait. He had the patience to wait another ten years, if necessary.

He'd gamble on her damnable pride, her iron will and fanatical need to keep her family name alive, even if it included the sacrifice of herself and of God.

Integra. _Integral_: complete; perfect. _His_ Hellsing. 

Had he been human, capable of such frail and ignoble traits as _emotions_, or _feelings_ or ...whatever... he might have thought he was fond of her. And wouldn't that have been a laugh? A pet, a true slave, to her - granted, but still a fragile thing, still disgustingly... mortal. 

Alucard's footsteps came to an abrupt halt, the knuckles in his left hand cracking under the grip of such an ignominious thought. Slowly, his fist relaxed. Fortunately, he was above such petty things. 

The vampire lifted his head, contemplating London's evening sky, silently laughing at himself in an unusual fit of self-deprecation.

How strange. How unlike him to fall into silly introspection.

"Must be the full moon," he murmured, to no one in particular.

Pulling the brim of his hat down, Alucard shifted his grip on the object under his coat and continued his leisurely stroll towards the Tower of London. It was a fine, if unusually warm, night after all.

He wondered if his master would appreciate his present.

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He was a short (shorter than her, anyway), rather stocky man in his sixties, dressed in tweed, with a salt beard and a permanently severe, lined face that only served to enhance the pretentious, self-important air he exuded.

In other words, he more or less resembled every other Knight she'd encountered at the Round Table conferences.

Integra's gaze swung from brief assessment of her cell's visitor down to the official papers in her hand. Her shoulders did not shake as she read the missive. Her voice didn't rise from its normal clipped contralto into the booming registers it usually did when she became angry. In fact, someone who didn't know Sir Hellsing would have thought she was being remarkably even-tempered instead of, say, mentally firing an exploding mercury round into the space between his eyes.

"I find it inconceivable that Her Majesty would agree to allow a member of..." Integra nearly choked on the epithet, "...a _pagan_ group to take control of Hellsing."

"I understand how valuable an asset Walter Dorne is to your family. However, Her Majesty felt it was necessary for someone of proper rank to assume a position such as yours."

"Walter has served Hellsing for nearly fifty years."

"And, as you just now mentioned, he is merely a servant."

"As is Alucard." She slapped the papers to the small table, near the cold remains of her dinner, but remained standing, refusing to place herself in any position below this pompous git. "Though I don't imagine you'll be able to order him as easily about." Her mouth tilted into the beginnings of a sneer. "You are, however, free to try."

Well, perhaps she was just a little irritated.

The old man smiled, a bit too patronizingly, and at that moment, Integra decided she was going to strangle him with her handcuffs if he even _entertained_ the idea of patting her head like some errant child. "Alucard is no longer your concern. We have other, less unreliable ways of dealing with whatever issues may arise."

"Ah, yes." A voice wound like monofilament in the air, as something wicked this way materialized through the carved memorial to the five Dudley brothers, looking every bit the dark prince of Wallachia. "If I recall correctly, it involves recruiting children, arming them with primitive weapons, and systematically tossing them to the monsters." Integra made a nearly inaudible sound of amusement that only vampire hearing caught. Blood-red eyes flickered momentarily towards her, and then back to the guest present. "Tell me, Watcher, how's that working out for you?"

"Alucard, this is Lord Roger Wyndham-Pryce," Integra smoothly interrupted before the old man could retort, noting that he'd recovered from her servant vampire's entrance surprisingly well. "He comes directly from the Council, under the advice of Her Majesty to assist with the administration of Hellsing. At least until my fate is decided." She shot a somewhat rueful glance at Alucard. "I thought you said they were blown-up."

"Send in inferiors to exterminate vermin," the Watcher took a wary step back as Alucard reached into his coat, "and they always forget about the roaches."

However, what the vampire chucked at the man --spattering him with clumps of grey matter and coagulating blood-- was the item he'd been saving for Integra - most of a bald, severed head with a bit of spinal cord dangling from the bottom. Most noticeable was that its eyes were sewn shut with runes carved across the eyelids. 

Torchlight glinted across the left lens of Integra's glasses as she ducked her head to hide the twitch in her lips. Cats sometimes left the heads of birds on their owners' doorstep as a sign of affection.

Sir Wyndham-Pryce, however, was not amused, but again, displayed remarkably smooth recovery. "A Bringer." He was good, she had to admit. "Where did you find this?"

"Near ground zero." Alucard took three long steps to the cluttered table and plonked himself casually into the chair near Integra. Unlike his master, he had no issues with where he stood (or being this case, sat) relative to matters. "I suppose escaping _before_ the bomb detonates becomes substantially more difficult when you can't actually locate the door."

"Bomb...?"

"Haven't you heard?" Integra crossed her arms as well as the soft-restraints on her wrists would allow. Alucard's eyes narrowed as he saw her hands were bare. Then spotted the bloodied glove on the floor. Unnoticed, he leaned back over in his chair and picked it up. "While you were otherwise occupied, someone, or some thing, decided your offices would be better served as landfill."

Sir Hellsing had never seen anyone dial a phone so quickly.

"Travers!" Roger Wyndham-Pryce barked into his cellular. Then, "If you could tell me where--" Master and servant watched as this poor man, who had probably experienced more shocks in a single hour than he'd managed to accumulate the past few years, slowly paled. "I see. Thank you."

Clicking the phone off, he strode back towards the entrance and banged his knuckles twice on the steel. Latches on the other side snicked hollowly as the locks slid away, and the door swung open. Two similarly-dressed aides stepped in as the Watcher addressed Alucard and Integra.

"As of now, you both are considered inactive. All Hellsing-related equipment will need to be turned in." The men then proceeded to confiscate Integra's laptop and cell phone, leaving only the cigars. Wyndham-Price turned to Alucard. "Including any weapons that happen to be on your persons." 

With a wicked smile, Alucard stood and drew both the Casull and Jackal, leveling their barrels at each of the aide's heads.

"I can do that. Would one bullet at a time be sufficient?" That smile stretched obscenely as he felt pulses spike, tendrils of his hair twitching like rattlesnakes. The guards outside had drawn their weapons as well, and were nervously pointing them at the vampire.

"As Administrator of Hellsing--" the Watcher tightly began.

Two safeties flicked off, sounding ridiculously loud in the small chamber. "I do not serve pretenders to the throne."

Lord Wyndham-Pryce threw a glance over towards Sir Hellsing, who stood there with her arms still crossed, impassive, and looking just a little bit smug. More footsteps sounded as panic began to rapidly build outside. Alucard licked his lips, fangs baring in anticipation of the impending violence.

"Alucard," she finally reprimanded, in a not-at-all convincing manner. 

The tense tableau held for a few more moments, then to the relief of all persons not named Integra Hellsing, the vampire reluctantly thumbed the safeties back on, inverted his weapons, and slapped them grip-first into the aides' hands. The unlucky fellow who was handed the Jackal fumbled and nearly dropped the thirty-five pound pistol.

Without further word, Alucard stepped between the two trembling men, towards the door. The armed guards stationed there still had their weapons trained on him, but slowly backed away as he made his exit.

Roger Wyndham-Pryce was last, turning at the door. He glanced around the room, motioning to his men. "I want wards set up all around the perimeter. We wouldn't want anything unfortunate to get out." His jaw twitched. "Or in."

He then addressed the cell's remaining occupant. "Sir Hellsing. I assure you this turn of events was not my idea. But as far as Her Majesty is concerned, your stay here has been deemed...indefinite."

After the cell door clanged shut and latches were swung back into place, Integra stood there for a while longer before slowly uncrossing her arms. Heading slowly back to her cot, she slowly sank down onto it.

And she waited. 


	4. Will

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**[4] Will**  
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Incarceration wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for all the boring parts. 

Integra Hellsing stood on an unmarked expanse of dungeon floor, one hand gripping the end of the three-foot pointer like one of her prized swords as she idly outlined a rough map of the invasion of Wallachia in yellow chalk. Here was something her servant vampire might have appreciated. At least up until the point he'd actually started losing the war. 

The tip of chalk lifted, hovering over the freshly drawn line. 

Had Alucard been a vampire as far as back then? She couldn't quite remember, having lost the specific numbers of his age around the middle of his semi-millenia, with only somewhat of vague recollection of him being around for at least four-hundred or so of those years before being captured. Added to that, another hundred years at the Hellsing Institute. 

What had transpired in the century of her family's experimentation and dabbling in the dark arts, wasn't exactly a topic Alucard liked to talk about in great detail. Or really, at all. Oh, she knew all the binding spells and the incantations by heart, could flawlessly perform the ceremonies and arts that shackled the No Life King to her will. What Integra didn't know, however, was _why_ her ancestors had chosen to spend a century perfecting a monster, only to promptly seal him away. 

Chalk touched the ground once more as Integra sketched out the remaining forces lining the bank of the Danube. 

Fear, perhaps. 

Of being unable to control him? 

Distilled to his essence, Alucard was the equivalent of nitrocubane in sunglasses and an overcoat. Yes, ridiculously powerful, explosive, and of dubious temperament. But when not actually killing anything? Mostly inert. In fact, sometimes Sir Hellsing wondered if her servant vampire even functioned outside of modes 'sleep' and 'shoot'. Well, there was 'annoy', but she had a feeling that was more an affectation. 

So, what then? 

Alucard had once oh-so-cryptically pointed out that the Eugenics Laboratory was only two doors down from the Dark Arts Room. 

Integra's mouth formed into a thin line as she moved the pointer over to the other side of the river, outlining the invading Turkish army. 

Ever the assuming one. Always opinionated. He swung his version of the truth about like a truncheon. Especially on topics he knew nothing about. 

A stream of fine rock powder trickled from the ceiling and dribbled off her shoulder, followed by a mechanical groan of some sort, much like large wooden gears shifting against each other overhead. Integra looked up to see a familiar arm reach down into the room, the gloved hand dropping something resembling a portable DVD player and a speaker-headset into hers. 

"I gather they've already warded the tower?" 

"Most of it." The rest of Alucard slowly sank upside-down into the room. "It makes me itchy." 

With cat-like ease, vampire turned in midair before dropping, his boots landing square in the middle of the Sultan's army, smearing them over floor. 

Ah, well. It _was_ historically accurate. 

Glancing about the area he'd stepped in, it took a few moments for Alucard to recognize exactly what was happening within the borders of his master's rough-sketched geography. 

"You should have dropped by yesterday." Integra plugged the headset into the device, extended the antenna, and flipped the LCD up. "The Caledonian War was something to be seen." 

"I'm sure it must have been impressive." 

"There was a legend. Color, even." The pointer swooped up in an arc, its end stopping three inches in front of the vampire's throat. "Did you know they made these things in multi-colors?" 

Alucard eyed the tip of chalk pointed at him like a rapier. 

"...We _really_ need to get you out of here." 

She chose to ignore that, swinging the pointer back down with a flick of her wrist, and turned on the receiver, favoring the familiar image and voice that popped up with a warm smile. "Walter. Wonderful to see you again." 

"Likewise, Sir Integra." 

"Update me on what's happening." 

"Miss Seras has been placed on inactive status." A thin smile. "For some reason, I don't think Sir Wyndham-Pryce trusts her either." 

"And you?" 

The Hellsing family retainer ostentatiously adjusted his monocle. "Everybody enjoys tea, sir." 

"What is Pryce doing about the FREAKs?" 

"As of now, absolutely nothing. And speaking of which, there have been reports of possible activity in several close-in areas, one supposedly at Her Majesty's Theatre." 

"Bastards are getting bold if they're coming in as far as the Haymarket." 

"Unfortunately, yes. But while we are presently unequipped to actively engage any potential hostiles, we do have ample resources to engage in a bit of, shall we say, surveillance?" 

A smirk slowly crept across Integra's face. "Thus the reason behind this setup." 

Four buttons labeled CAM1 through CAM4 lined the palm area of the device. Clicking through the remaining inputs, Integra discovered her own profile on the third channel. Turning, she saw Alucard, who had on a headset similar to hers, only with the addition of a side-mounted CMOS camera. The video image dipped as he inclined his head. 

_I shall return anon._ And like mercury, he slipped up through the ceiling and out. 

Hmm. "By the way, Walter. How exactly did you come upon this information?" 

A polite cough. "Officer Victoria felt strongly that our ventilation ducts were in need of cleaning and took it personally upon herself to inspect each one thoroughly." 

"Good girl. I imagine the one above my office was quite dirty." 

"Extremely so." 

"Can I also assume--" Integra paused and her gaze tilted up to the spot the vampire had disappeared through. "_Anon?_" Since when did Alucard _anon_? 

"Beg pardon?" 

"Nothing." Back to issues at hand. "Above the main conference room. I gather that vent was also in dire need of maintenance?" 

"Appalling. She spent a great deal of time there." 

"The police girl's grown up quite well, hasn't she?" 

Her fingers, she realized, were itching, and Sir Hellsing really wanted a cigar right now. Walking back to her dining area, she placed the receiver and pointer on the table, spotting a pair of neatly folded white gloves that hadn't been there before. 

There was a click and a momentary hiss as a third voice came on line. "Sergeant Victoria reporting in. Destination and uplink successful." 

With cigar firmly in mouth, Integra pulled her new gloves on and clicked on the second input. Seras' camera panned left and right as she gingerly stepped through the backstage area of the theatre. It paused on a mock-up of what appeared to be a giant decorative elephant. 

"Isn't this where the _Phantom of the Opera_'s playing?" queried the vampiress. 

"Now and forever," came the dry reply. 

"I believe that's _CATS_, Walter." Integra. 

"Oh? Is there a difference?" 

"I **love** the _Phantom of the Opera_!" Seras squealed, _sotto voce_. Integra pulled the headphone slightly away from her ear. "It's so romantic!" 

"Overwrought melodrama with ham-handed fools spontaneously breaking out into song for no discernable reason," a fourth voice buzzed in. "But I suppose children like silly bedtime stories." 

"I can see how a show starring a homicidal maniac obsessed with the ingénue wouldn't interest you in the least bit, Alucard," came the waspish reply. Sir Hellsing's bullets might not have wielded the same firepower as her servant vampire's, but few could dispute their precision. 

Walter made a throat-clearing noise. "Yes. Well. Moving on. Miss Seras, you are now entering the theatre's main stage. May I caution you to watch where you step, as you may encounter a number of--" 

A yelp, a thud, and static. 

"...trap doors." 

Seconds later, amidst a few groans, the camera blipped back on. 

More groans. These were deeper and more pained. 

"Are you all right, Miss Seras?" Walter inquired. 

"That wasn't me." Seras concentrated, forcing her vampire 'third' eye to adapt to the near pitch of the below set area. The starlight scope feature of the camera, however, was more than adequate to display the surroundings to those on the viewing end, especially once everything came into focus. 

"Pull out!" 

"Ghouls!" The vampiress' shouts came at the same time as her commander's, as preternatural vision revealed a swarm of the undead surrounding her. She reflexively reached back for her Harkonnen... 

...which wasn't there. In fact, she had nothing more dangerous on her person than a blood bag and a pen. Oh, hell. It wasn't even a real pen; it was one of those useless magic markers. Taking hold of the packet, she tore the plastic open with her teeth and sprayed her dinner over the nearest group, before bolting. 

"I need cover for Seras!" Integra barked into the audio link. 

"Already there." And a bass chuckle. 

Now _that_ was never a good sign. 

Fingers snapped on the button displaying Alucard's video feed. The view greeting Integra was a spectacular shot overlooking the dress circle as Seras pulled herself up through the open trap, leaped off the stage and tore madly up the center aisle. The swarm of ghouls followed, scrambling up every available stage orifice, including the musicians' pit. 

A _twang_ sounded, much too close, and a large steel cable snapped by and fell out of view. A second _twang_, and the picture lurched, swinging erratically to and fro. 

Oh, no. _No_. He wasn't... 

The third one went, and the to-and-fro pendulum cam bordered on sickening carnival ride. 

Oh, yes he was. 

Finally, the last strand of cable broke, and all Integra heard was Alucard's laughter as the giant chandelier plummeted down into the mass of undead below. 

Hellsing's former leader pinched the bridge of her nose under where the pads of her glasses pressed against her skin and rubbed furiously for several seconds before sighing and switching the input source again. 

Seras, who'd made decent footwork on the strategic retreat, shot forward double-time as three-quarter tons of steel and glass crashed into the floor behind, spraying beads past her. Turning into the lobby, she paused, hand on the lever. Her eyes widened and she made a quick right, charging down that hallway instead. 

As the first mass of following ghouls not crushed by the smashingly effective stage prop reached that same set of doors, several explosive twenty-millimeter rounds blew through the doors and any hapless undead in the vicinity. 

"We have guests." Alucard hovered over the proscenium arch, watching with curious detachment as black-clad commando crews burst in below and made short, bloody work of the ghouls. 

"Not MI-6." 

"No, they seem too well-prepared." 

"What are they carrying?" Integra adjusted the LCD of her receiver attempting to gain a clearer view of the large, boxy rifles carried by the kevlar-armored unit. 

"Short-barreled assault rifle...integrated twenty-millimeter High Explosive Air Bursting sub...target acquisition/fire control system..." Walter's fingers could be heard tapping on the table as he murmured to himself. "I believe these may be XM-29 Objective Individual Combat Weapons, sir." 

"Aren't these still in prototype?" 

"Officially, yes." 

Sir Hellsing watched an HEAB round explode over the orchestra pit, annihilating the hiding ghouls below. "I want one." 

"_Finley, you and the rest of Alpha take the left perimeter. Edson, Bravo company downstairs_," squawked out from a walkie-talkie below. 

"Americans," Walter intoned. 

"Blackwater Ops?" Integra switched back to Seras. 

"Can't tell, sir," puffed the vampiress, as she flew up the rear stairwell. "They've got no insignias, no patches or any other identifiers." 

"Do you have a sticky pod on you?" 

"Two." 

"I'll need a closer look at these men." 

"Right." 

Turning, Seras suction-cupped a fourth camera to the wall of the stairwell, broke off a piece of railing, and chucked it down the stairs with enough force to alert several soldiers below. 

Hauling full speed back up, she turned on the top floor spinning around the corner and leapt, pulling herself up onto the catwalk above. Skidding to a halt, she came face-to-face with the business end of an XM-29. The last thing Seras saw was a large high-explosive round heading straight towards her. 

"Seras!" Integra shouted. 

CAM2 went supernova, and then dead. 

*˜*˜*˜*˜*˜*˜*˜*˜ 


	5. Trash

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**[5] Trash**  
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
_Contempt loves the silence_  
_It thrives in the dark_  
_With fine winding tendrils_  
_That strangle the heart_

˜˜Natalie Merchant, _My Skin_  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

_See, his deal was to always make best of a buggered situation. Not the 'cheerful in the face of adversity' bit - that sort of nonsense made him want to rip off the wanker's dangly bits and tee-off with 'em. However, it stood to reason that if unlife trapped you in a submarine swarming with S.S., you might as well celebrate Oktoberfest early._

_At least that's how he explained it to the litter of dead Nazis on the floor. They didn't reply. Eh, you know how dead people were._

_'Free Virgin Blood Party,' his arse. His pride still stung from that._

_It wasn't so much that he'd been duped. It was that he'd been duped so wretchedly, like a giddy newborn, some simpering fledgling mindlessly pawing for his first meal. But he'd been desperate. And desperation bred stupidity in the image of Drusilla, bloodless and weak, mewling for warm, little girls as her broken little body tossed and turned in the sheets. Desperation drove him to prowl the streets of Madrid hunting for young game and had trapped him in a submarine occupied by the carnival of idiots. _

_Such as: The Prince of Lies, or whatever the bloke'd called himself. King of Bullshit was about right. What was it with boring, old codgers whose golden years had passed on for centuries, who insisted on regaling trapped audiences with endless exploits of once glorious havoc?_

_'It was an apocalypse, I tell you. We had the power! We could have ended the world right then!'_

_Well, pull out his brainstem and call him Fyarl, but considering the state of the universe at the moment, this so-called apocalypse didn't exactly happen, did it?_

_A disgruntled grumble. "No...well, Lucas forgot the oregano. Oregano's a crucial ingredient!" he protested. "But we were this close!'_

_Criminy._

_And yet, despite that, the interminable His Majesty still wagered better than conversing with contestant number two: Nostroyev, whose main claim to fame was that he'd wrapped his lips around Rasputin's thirty-centimeter (so claimed) knob. It was something the nattering little poofter rather enjoyed reminding his companions of with unnecessary frequency._

_Seize that._

_He wanted out. Now._

_This confinement felt a little too much like his first death. He wondered if he'd have to claw his way out of this steel casket as he had to do with his own buried coffin. Happy thoughts of using Nostroyev's head as a flotation device flitted through his brain._

_He rifled through the last Nazi's pockets for a key, his newest trophy, the S.S.-Gruppenführera, hanging smartly from his shoulders. If there was one thing they had going for them, it was their sense of style. Even if they did taste like pig._

_Taking a moment out of ransacking the corpse, he wondered how Dru was faring. Hoped his princess was still clinging on to unlife with those lovely, blood-red nails of hers._

_The port door swung open and he stood, facing an all-too-familiar mug._

_Well, well, well. If it wasn't the great big forehead himself._

_"Spike," came Angelus' unenthused mutter._

_He snorted. _

_"They'll let anybody in here."_

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

A long time ago. Twelve months earlier, she might have forgiven him. 

She might have remembered his desperate attempts to save her, the both of them atop that so-very tall tower. His frank and open willingness to sacrifice himself, to protect and watch out for her. His agony when he realized, as Doc's knife eviscerated him, he'd failed. The look on his face as he fell all those stories, and broke on the ground below. 

She might have thought Spike loved her too. A little bit. In his own way. 

Because she'd loved him. A little bit. In her own way. 

And perhaps Dawn Summers still loved him. Somewhere, tucked away, in that tiny part of her that treasured all the summer sessions of five-card stud and scary '_when I was a bad vamp_' tales and pints of Ben and Jerry's Phish Food that accompanied late-night horror flicks on the couch as she huddled under the blankets, screaming when he grabbed her foot. Occasional sleepless nights with the two of them sitting on the back steps of the house, her arm tucked in his, head against his shoulder, as he held a cigarette with his other hand, both waiting for the sun to rise. 

A larger part of her, though, hated him. Or something. For leaving. For coming back. For getting that _thing_. For _her_. 

'_Her_' was meandering aimlessly around the tombstones, popping off a rambly, ill-prepared lecture on staking, most of which were some variant of 'find heart, push.' 

Observing her from the back, Dawn could sense Buffy's preoccupation, her distracted air and the way she held the stake, passing it restlessly from hand to hand. Next would come the twirling. And when that grew tedious, she'd start rolling it in her fingers. Moving nearer, she caught part of the murmured conversation between her friends (well, friends and one hostage), as the other potential slayers happily went through their fake-stabbing motions with all the full, if clumsy, enthusiasm possible. 

"--don't feel right about just leaving Spike there." 

"He hasn't regained consciousness in three days, Buff," Xander murmured in equally low tones. "Doubt it's going to happen any time soon. Besides, Will's keeping him company so it's not like he's all alone." 

"It's just that--" And there went the stake rolling. "If he wakes up--" 

"He'll probably scream from the stabbing pain in his chest," Anya cut in. "I don't see why we keep on feeding him. He's never going to heal with that splinter in there and it's just going to keep dripping like a leaky faucet." 

Buffy glanced at the ex-vengeance demon, then away. 

"Why hasn't anyone taken it out, then?" From the mouths of babes. Or in this case, Andrew, which, Dawn supposed, was close enough. 

"Are you volunteering?" Anya put in bluntly. "You just need to cut him open and rummage around inside. Of course, there is that possibility that one wrong move might accidentally dust him." 

The geek paled and shrunk back, pointing. "She's the one with the steady hand." 

"Wha--hey--what? Me?" Buffy looked terrified. "What do I look like, Doctor Geiger? I barely passed biology. " 

Xander gestured at the stake. "Considering where you stick those things on a daily basis, I'm positive you have more than a passing idea of where a heart's located." 

"I--" Buffy's lips pressed together, teeth worrying the insides, turning the piece of wood over and over in her hands, looking at it like it were some sort of foreign object. As if she'd never held hundreds of them before and those calluses on her palm and the one directly below her right knuckle had formed overnight out of nowhere. "I don't think I can--" 

"Gallifrey!" Blank looks dropped all around. "Doctor Who," Andrew clarified. Nothing. "His second heart was tied to the Eye of Harmony, except it didn't exist anymore and was slowly poisoning him, so he had to have it removed." 

"And that answers the time-long question of, '_could you possibly be any more useless?_'" Xander sneered. He paused, considering for a moment. "Besides, it's more like _Pusher_. Scientific nature of the whammy." 

Andrew perked up. "Oh! The X-Files episode where Modell mind-controls Mulder and tries to make him shoot Scully!" He leaned back, dropping his voice into a lower register, and stuck both thumbs into his jeans. "'_Cerulean is like a gentle breeze._'" 

"Or we could continue to do what we're doing right now," Buffy snapped, giving the two men a dirty look, "which is--oh!--a giant exercise in nothing." 

"On the other hand," Anya piped in. "once the brain damage settles in from starvation, Spike should be quite docile." 

"Don't think there's going to be much of a difference, then." It wasn't even half snarky. Apparently, there was enough guilt to go around where even Xander could take a slice. "It's not as if Spike's exactly the freshest cup of coffee in the pot right now." 

"Nothing like free psychotherapy from the First." Dawn tossed in half-heartedly. "Emphasis on the 'psycho.'" 

Knuckles showed up white against the stake in Buffy's hand, fingers it gripping so hard, she might have caused another repeato-smasho. Dawn wondered who'd get the splinter to the heart this time around. 

"It's not just that. It's the--because of...it." 

Yeah, the '_it_', the younger Summers reflected sourly. Buffy'd never say it explicitly, preferring to rely on creative euphemisms, like, you know. '_It_.' Like '_it_' was something Spike'd picked up on sale at the Souls-R-Us Emporium for twelve ninety-five. Scratch and dent, slightly used. All sales final. 

And it was really too bad he'd lost the receipt from whoever he bartered his sanity to, because Dawn was pretty damn sure he wouldn't have made that kind of purchase had he known just how gypped he'd get in the deal. 

Buffy couldn't say the word because the whole idea was too unbelievable, too big and bulky and…like that giant white what-was-it-called bird thing? Right. Albatross. Buffy's basement-dwelling albatross. And it made her nervous and jittery and if anyone looked closely enough, maybe even a little bit guilty as well. 

Which was stupid because Spike wasn't the one who'd nearly been raped. He wasn't the one Xander had found bruised and battered, crying on the bathroom floor. No, Spike didn't deserve a soul. He deserved pain. Death. Dust in the sun. Stakes and holy water and fire and a hundred splinters forever and ever and ever. He didn't deserve any forgiveness. _No forgiveness for you!_

Then again, it was doubtful he wanted it. 

Her gaze dropped to the ground. She was so confused. Too many questions, troubled thoughts. Too many whys no one bothered to explain. 

Like-- 

_Why? Why did you do it if you loved her?_

Or, to a lesser extent-- 

_Why her? Why did you choose to love her?_

And in some, private, locked-up part of her-- 

_Why not me?_

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

_He never much fancied the ocean. Didn't care for being trapped in this small, steel container. Not what he would consider a jolly good time. Still, make do, so there he was, Captain Spike, ahoy and all that rot, underwater, enclosed, and with the tiniest bit of claustrophobia settling in, glaring at the Nazi cowering under the ashes of the former His Royal Horseshit. The Yanks that had boarded the swimming sardine can were apparently fully capable of running the jerry. He made a mental note to eat them later and fell back to doing what he did best - mainly, menacing._

_"Anybody read Nazi?"_

_The Prince of Lies had been very interested in the contents of the papers he'd had in hand, at least enough to unglue his decrepit self from his chair and attach it to Fritz (He didn't actually know the Nazi's name. But he looked like a Fritz, so Fritz he was.) before Angelus unceremoniously relegated him to the dustbin. Cranky old bastard, his sire._

_"Intra-Gehirn-Kontrolle und Beeinflussung von Sub-Dämonen..."_

_Oh, real helpful there, mate. Intimidation, however useful it was, did not make a German speak the King's language, and making the guy piss himself in an enclosed space was probably not the most well thought out idea he'd ever had._

_"...Genauer: Vampire."_

_Wait. He knew that one. "What about vampires?"_

_"I don't know. It's technical...Something about stimulation and...control. They've been experimenting on them... and cutting into their brains..."_

_Americans. More and more useful all the time. He added a postscript to his mental note to eat this Lawson kid last. As a favor._

_"They're trying to create an army... out of things like you."_

_THAT he could understand. Him and Angelus. Top o' the toppers. Baddest of the bad that ever badded around._

_"Wir sind nicht die einzigen." He was looking at Angelus funny. "Oder?"_

_"It was part of the mission." _

_More and more interesting. Both sides, eh? Much as it was flattering to be desired by so many, he wasn't about to be melon-balled by either party in the name of science. Vampire regeneration be damned - he didn't want to empirically discover if brains grew back. If the Yanks wanted to get their hot little grubbers on him as well, supper would just have to be taken a little earlier._

_As he reached for his first appetizer, a young, fresh-faced boy who'd called himself "Spinelli," the jerry boat shook and shimmied, tossing them about like a package of jellybeans. Water sprung in the hulls, accompanying deafening explosions and the dead down below. Claustrophobia zoomed to the forefront and all he could think was to move. Moving. Had to keep moving. Following Angelus through the galley, through the kitchen and quarters. In the engine room, Fritz, bloody and beaten, bleating ceaselessly--_

_"The Kraut poked me!"_

_-- the makeshift shiv in his hands gouging out a sizeable chunk of calf. _

_"I'll kill the bloody--"_

_"We need to go NOW, Spike."_

_As Angelus shoved his screaming and kicking form through the door, he wondered what the hell the stupid German was bleating on about. He stopped and turned. And no, no it wasn't supposed to go this way. The plot didn't go like this. But when did William the Bloody ever listen to anything? Roughly shoving hands off, he turned to the other vampire. "What's he mean by that?"_

_"What?"_

_"Fritz, back there. He kept saying something about 'voll--vollkie-probey-something'. What does it--"_

_But Angelus wasn't listening. His face was too busy melting, dripping like a Dali, as the filmstrip caught and burned away, celluloid dissolving into nuclear winter, and he found himself falling back, back, back..._

_...opening his eyes to white on white on white. Antiseptic stink, strapped down and sedated. Poked and prodded and starved under bright lights and plexiglass and inconsensual orthodontry._

_"Genetic prints match the DNA strand imbedded in the Beta 37TGG mutator biochip with ninety-nine point three percent probability."_

_"Him? He's the one?" Amused grandma voice. "Not a very impressive primogen, is he?"_

_"According to Spinelli's records, they weren't exactly picking from the cream of the crop."_

_"And yet they've already created their first round of monsters. Monsters!" The clanking of instruments, metal bouncing in a tray. Heavy breathing. A low chuckle. "Let them keep creating their little abominations. After all, a little competition only hurts…the vampires."_

_"Professor Walsh?"_

_"Prepare the hostile for cranial trepanation."_

_And there were drills and needles and silicone and fire, lightning sparking through his cerebral cortex--_

Spike woke screaming, his arms clutched tightly around his head as if to keep their insides from spilling out onto the pillowcase. The splinter shifted and turned, and he collapsed back onto the cot, gasping, hands dropping down to scrabble feebly over his heart. A hand gently pushed them away, pressing a towel to his bleeding chest, and his head lolled to the right, wearily surprised to find Willow perched in the chair next to him. 

"Hey," she smiled in that shaky and pale manner unused to dealing with people waking in full-body elevation. "You were out for a while." Seeing that Spike wasn't about to engage in another fit of shrieking, she unwound a fraction, adding, "We were all kinda getting worried there, you know." 

He nodded marginally, not believing the tiniest bit of it, and closed his eyes again, heightened senses noticing a distinct lack of high-pitched chatter, or assorted powder-and-lotion girl smells, or even the creak of the refrigerator perpetually opening and closing, accompanied by the constant patter of footsteps tromping about the floors above. 

"Gone out for Slayer night school," Willow explained. "They should be back in a half hour or so." 

"Must have drawn the short straw, stuck babysitting the useless infirm here." Spike's throat felt rough and sandpapery, coated with drying gobbets of a force-fed meal. He swallowed loudly, parched tongue running over the dried blood stuck to his teeth and mouth. 

"I don't mind. It's kinda nice, actually, to have a bit of alone time. To sort things out. Think." 

"You think about Tara." It was an intangible sort of statement, something between a query and assumption. Willow shrugged, ever so slightly. "I liked her," Spike said quietly. "She was nice." 

"Yeah," her voice shook as she forced back tears. "She was, wasn't she?" 

"Sorry for punching her in the face." It sounded kind of stupid, even to his ears. 

"S'okay. You were only trying to help. In your typically sociopathic way." And the witch sat there, head bowed, wringing her hands in her lap. "It's funny," she stumbled on, "We both lost people important to us. Except you went out and got a soul while I went all veiny and black-magicky." 

"Must've been a sight." 

"Nah. Turns out, brunette's not really my color. Evil's actually pretty hard, what with the need to come up with nasty quips and nefarious plots all the time." 

"We all have our bad days." Ghost of a smile. "Some of us just get 'em all strung together and call it a century." 

"I doubt you ever tried to end the world single-handedly." 

"Still here, innit?" His fingers brushed over his forehead. "It was the oregano, wasn't it? Everyone always forgets the oregano." 

Willow let that pass, attributing it another flare up of the vampire's mental gophers. 

"Been around longer'n you, Red," he added. "Add up a hundred years of unforgivable things and you'll find--" 

"I'm just a one-shot apocalypse wonder? Poor Willow went temporarily insane, so if we just lay on the big old forgiveness, that'll make it all okay-dandy. Right?" 

Spike found he couldn't answer that one. It wasn't as if he were familiar with the concept. 

"I'm forgiven because I'm Willow. Good old, needs to be rescued, always bungling it up, Willow. Even if it's from herself." Bringing her legs up, she huddled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. Pulling herself smaller, so small, perhaps she could disappear. "Sometimes. Sometimes I think it might have been better if they hadn't." 

She couldn't explain it to them. Her friends. Anybody. Tell them, that even in her hyper-powered bad mojo'ed madness, she'd been quite lucid. Decisions were easy when you no longer cared, and in the end, what it came down to, for her, were two bullets. One misplaced, stray shot to destroy her world. And she didn't want to live in a world without Tara. 

Two bullets, and the one who shouldn't have survived, did. She should have felt guilty for formulating the thought, for that quiet betrayal of her best friend, but given the choice, in this universe and all subsequent ones, she would have traded one bullet for the other, all without a second thought. 

Scrubbing the back of her hand over her eyes, she glanced over at Spike, who'd shifted to lie face-up on the cot, still form broken only by the irregular rise and fall of his ribs. He didn't need to breathe, but then again, he'd smoked and talked and laughed, and when he'd exerted himself, he'd forget and start panting. Phantom lungs, shallow unnecessary breathing, the only thing separating him from the truly dead. 

It reminded her of her Buffy in that operating room, the slug of lead in her heart, surrounded by surgeons and sharp instruments and machines that went '_ping_'. 

Willow sat up, her shoes dropping flat to the ground. "When Buffy was shot, I levitated the bullet out of her. Maybe I can do the same thing with the splinter." 

At first, he didn't react. Then, eyes slowly re-opened. "Can't hurt to try. " 

She leaned over him, hand hovering over his heart, fingers tugging on invisible mannequin strings. A whispered incantation touched his ears, murmurs, and warm rush suffusing his limbs. It began as an itch, a spark, a pull and sizzle. Then he felt it move, shift, a hot needle slowly burning, and it burned, burning in his chest, burning in his head and it was becoming unbearable. Light and the smell and the fire, blackening flesh, the splinter, the soul and the shattered demon. Hands in his heart, the sun burning out eye sockets and _I'm sorry, never meant to hurt her. Oh, god, it hurts, make it stop, die, die, want to die, please let me die, can't--can't--_

The tugging suddenly stopped and he fell painfully back onto the cot, sputum of blood and mucus spattering his chin, as Willow shot up from her chair, knocking it over. "I'm sorry--I--didn't—" Stumbled back. "I'm sorry--I'm sorry," she kept repeating, voice notching into hysteria, as she backpedaled towards the stairs. "I screwed it up." 

"No, Will--" He reached weakly for her. 

"I always screw it up. I always--" 

"Red, wait!" Spike pushed himself off the cot but heavy limbs failed and he landed painfully on the floor, kicking over a nearby trashcan. The sudden, jarring agony was enough to make him vomit up the animal blood clumped in his guts. As the heaves subsided, he lifted his dripping face from the mess and looked up towards the stairs, but Willow had already fled. 

"Looks like you're all alone again, with no one here but the trash for company." 

And then she was there, kneeling before him, her golden hair and chapstick smile, the butterfly bandage gracing her cheek. He blinked and turned away. Illusion. 

Heavy arms, heavy hands fisted the blotchy towel, wiping it over his bloodied mouth. The trickling had stopped. Wasn't much left over to bleed. He pushed himself to his knees. 

"Trash. That's what Xander calls you anyway. Garbage." The First crouched in front of him. "Tell you a little secret, Spikey. They all think that. Because really, that's what you are." 

Fingers picked through the refuse around him, searching through the dirty pile of candy wrappers and blood cartons until he found it. A single empty beer bottle. Widmer Amber Ale broke under his fingers, chunks of glass sprinkling on the ground. Sharp edges of the biggest shard bit into his hand as he picked it up. 

_Shattering glass, distorted face, mottled anger, striking, blood, came back wrong. The ceiling, its beams, him. Breaking. Cracking. Sawdust tickling his back._

Get it out. Had to get it out. Drawing his fist back, he angled the point inwards and stabbed himself in the chest. 

Pain made it real. 

_For her. Everything for her. Fists, feet striking, yes, put it all on me, hate, hit, hurt, anything. Anything to protect her. And they melted all together, mushed phrases and phrases, declarations of love and hisses and sneers, breaking furniture and nails and fucking and drawing blood and biting and her begging. Begging him to stop. _

Stop! Please stop! Flailing, crying, shoving. A kick and his head cracking open under the sink-- 

" Look at you. Weak and pathetic. You're beyond useless." Spike lifted his eyes and saw her, her beautiful face filled with disgust and loathing. "Why don't you just die?" 

_Couldn't stop. Had to make her see. Make her feel. Understand. Couldn't she feel it? Why couldn't she feel it? Bruises matching his fingerprints, dotting her wrists, one purple mark the perfect shape of his left palm on her thigh._

"There's nothing good or clean in you!" she hissed, her voice so close to his ear. 

Fingers and glass tore at his chest. Probing. Searching. For the splinter. Soul. Either. Both. Pieces of himself spilling to the floor. 

Pain made him real. 

"Tell me you love me," the illusion moaned. 

_Always._

"I'm using you," it whispered. 

_Anything to have her. _

"It's killing me," it pleaded. 

_Anything to keep her. _

"Rapist." 

_Feed on flesh._

"Nothing more than an animal." 

_Give her what she deserves_

We will give you back your soul 

_You are..._

Dollar bills blowing in an alley 

_beneath_

Glass, slick, so heavy in his hands 

_beneath her_

"Ask me why I could never love you." 

_nothing _

_nothing but _

_trash. _

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

A mug crashed to the floor. A weak and nauseous "Buffy?" wavered in from the basement. The door flung open and steps piled inside. Another set, then another, then a flurry of more feet shuffling over carpet and toes slapping tile. 

The Slayer roughly shoved through the mob of girls and flew down the stairs, her feet barely touching every other step. As she pivoted around the corner of the handrail, time stopped in the frozen frame of Willow standing there, hand over mouth, blood splattered on her shoes, socks and the bottom cuffs of her pants; at her feet, a broken coffee cup of congealing, microwaved pig; Spike, so still, he might have been a black and white photo against the floor. But there was too much red in this picture, everywhere; clothes and skin and hair and floor. 

The stake in her hand unglued and fell, bouncing on the floor with a dull clatter. 

With a lurch, time moved forward again. 

Willow's head whipped around to face Buffy. 

"Oh, Jesus," Xander coughed next to her, making strangled noise like a bile tarantula was crawling up his throat. 

Footsteps of the girls who'd followed Buffy down tramped back upstairs, followed by wet, retching sounds. 

"What's with the big--" Dawn abruptly stopped, legs going limp, and she sat down heavily on the stairs. 

Without a word, Buffy turned and marched back upstairs. 

Dawn turned, incredulous, and followed her sister as she made a beeline for the kitchen. Yanking open the cutlery drawer, she pulled it all the way out slammed the drawer onto the countertop. From the pile, Buffy picked up a long filleting knife. A thin laugh followed as she held up the blade, noting the _Ginsu_ label. "This is supposed to be strong enough to cut through a tin can, so I guess that's good enough for..." Her jaw clicked shut. 

Dawn knelt and fumbled around under the sink, breaking half a dozen yellow sponges from their cellophane wrappers, before dumping them into a pie pan. Calmly, almost casually, she remarked, "For the blood. There's going to be a lot of bleeding and you have to sponge the blood up. They do that on _E.R._ all the time." 

Back downstairs, they found Xander squatting over Spike, attempting to move him to a drier patch of concrete. The vampire was heavy and sticky, and he was stained up to his elbows. He glanced up at the knife in Buffy's hand, before glancing down. A red index finger traced a line down Spike's chest. 

"You're going to have to go through the sternum. It's the breastplate." Off their collective looks he quirked a shoulder. "Who didn't see _Pulp Fiction_?" 

But that was as far as the joke went. Unbuttoning the slippery caked shirt, Buffy pulled the halves away from his torso. The blade went limp in her grip. It was a mess. Scars, bleeders, little worms and knife cuts littered the landscape of Spike's chest like a bad cross-hatching experiment. Some were raised white lines, some crusted over, healing scabs. But a majority of them were new, all centered around the bloody, jagged mess over his heart. 

"In _Alien Autopsy_, they put the reticulan on a block. Better access to the thoracic cavity." Andrew, strangely enough, didn't seem as squeamish as assumed. But then again, he'd murdered Jonathan, hadn't he, Dawn reflected. He was used to stabbing someone and watching them bleed to death on the ground. 

Xander bunched the towel and several shirts, slipping them under Spike. 

"You're going to need retractors to keep the two halves of the sternum apart." 

"Yeah, well, the amateur surgery ward's grossly underequipped at the moment, Anya." Buffy snapped, lifting the knife. "So we'll just have to make do." 

"Is no one bothered by the fact that our collective medical knowledge derives entirely from reruns?" Willow had broken her stunned silence long enough to make the shrill query. 

"At least mine came from the _Discovery Channel_," protested the ex-demon. 

"Buffy picks up new Slayer moves from _Walker, Texas Ranger_ every week." Dawn, offering up what had to be the strawiest straw-man in strawdom that had ever strawed to date, crouched on the side of Spike opposite her sister, pie pan ready. 

At which point Willow gave up. "Have at it." A pair of hands rested gently on her shoulders and she turned, surprised, to the sympathetic face of the eldest potential, Kennedy. 

The tip of the blade paused over the patch of mangled skin and muscle before rising and deliberately drawing down and southward. If there were any non-participating gawkers remaining, the sick, grinding noise the knife made as it sawed through the inch of cartilage drove them back upstairs. 

Dawn made soft, gagging noises, going deathly pale at the sound. Her hands shook, but didn't hesitate to swab away at the blood rising to the surface. 

Fingers of both hands reached into the slit and pried both halves of Spike's chest apart. Nested in the cavity, the dessicated heart resembled little more than a fist-sized prune. 

"I see it. There." Dawn pointed at the gory little tip sticking out. 

"Where? I don't--" 

Buffy blinked as the teen's fingers plunged into his chest. 

"What are you--" 

"Trying to concentrate here." 

It was a strange, slippery sensation, fumbling in Spike's chest cavity, all _Upton Sinclair_ and _Fast Food Nation_ and other gory horror stories about putrid cow guts that had made Dawn swear off Doubletmeat burgers forever. Except that instead of that steamy innard-like feeling, Spike was kinda tepid and gooey, like wet rubber cement. Really, really gross rubber cement. The overpowering stench of old blood that had threatened to toss her tummy's contents like a richter-scale banana shake had since deadened in her nostrils as her hand swirled around inside, attempting to make a grab for the elusive sliver of wood. 

"Dawn, let me take care of this." 

"Yeah Dawn," Xander's oddly weak voice trickled in. "Let Buffy do her thing." 

"Almost there. I think I might--" 

Missed. Again. The formerly still heart gave a warning shudder. Xander pressed down, trying to keep Spike still as his shoulders reflexively jerked and twitched. 

"Get your hand out of there now, Dawn!" 

"Shut up!" The teen shrieked. "Just shut up and let me--" 

"You're killing him!" Buffy shouted, nearly hysterical. 

Dawn took two short, hard breaths and shot her hand back in, fingernails scoring on the viscous splinter. With an equally quick motion, she snapped her arm back. 

"Got it!" 

Spike's heart gave a giant lurch and shudder, but then settled back into a state that was most decidedly non-dustlike, much like the rest of him. 

Buffy slumped back, letting the halves of the sternum slide shut. 

"He's going to be okay," Dawn whispered. Then she laughed. 

"You go, Dawnie!" Xander gently tapped her shoulder. 

She was pale and shaking, covered in cooling gore and was probably going to hurl in the next minute, but for now she allowed herself to feel triumphant. Her hand lifted, victorious, in the air, the tiny sliver of wood grasped in blood-smeared fingers. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

A/N: 

Several passages are paraphrased from _Angel, the Series_ episode _Why We Fight_. Much thanks to Monanotlisa for the German lessons. 

References include Monty Python, The X-Files, Chicago Hope, E.R., Pulp Fiction, Alien Autopsy, TDC and Dr. Who. 

Next: What happened to Seras, Father Anderson's encounter with the First Evil, Hellsing and Iscariot come to an agreement, and more things get blown up. 


End file.
